


Best Laid Plans

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, and isn’t afraid to bang their heads together when needed, beryl is the ultimate chelsie shipper, elsie hughes - kitchen disaster, written before all of series 6 aired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 09:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13924725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: Mrs Patmore gets the wrong end of the stick, marital intensions are questioned and Mrs Hughes knows all, but likes to hear it said anyway.





	Best Laid Plans

“Well, they’ve not turned out too terribly.” Mrs Patmore says – somewhat over-enthusiastically to Elsie’s mind – as she reaches out to snap one of the too dark biscuits in half. It takes a moment and when it finally breaks, pieces fly out all over the kitchen, a dull ring echoing where one particularly large chunk has landed in a saucepan by the sink.

 

Elsie raises an eyebrow and quickly stops the cook when she makes to pop what’s left of the biscuit in her mouth. “Really Beryl, there’s no need to be kind.” 

  
She can’t imagine that the confection can taste any better than it looks and though she _is_ thankful for her friend’s support, she doesn’t want to inadvertently poison the poor woman. Especially not when Elsie obviously needs far more help if she’s to survive cooking for herself, and her husband.

  
As things stand, Mr Carson will surely become a much leaner man during their retirement or else they will be regular patrons of every public house in the village.

  
After a moment’s hesitation, Beryl drops the biscuit back onto the plate, the near black lump landing with a clunk amongst its charred brothers. “No, they are a bit of a disaster aren’t they?” Elsie grimaces a kind of smile in response, relieved and anxious in equal measure as the cook turns to throw the lot out. 

  
She suspects that even had his Lordship already replaced Isis, the results of her first foray into biscuit making would still not have made it to the dog’s bowl.

  
“Never mind that, we’ve plenty of time to get you cooking with the best of them, Mrs Hughes.” The cook reaches out a hand to squeeze Elsie’s elbow and Elsie is only glad that there is no one else present to see just how poorly these lessons are going.

  
She tries, really she does. She listens avidly to the other woman’s instructions, follows them to the letter and still the best she has managed during the few weeks Mrs Patmore has been teaching her, is a half baked loaf of bread and a perfectly poached egg. 

  
Even if she does improve by producing a loaf that’s cooked all the way through, it won’t add up to much of a menu. They can’t survive on egg and toast for the rest of their years!

  
She turns a small smile on her friend, who is already pulling out more flour and milk to try again. “Thank you Mrs Patmore, but I’m not sure all the time in the world would be enough for that.”

  
Mrs Patmore stills, glancing her up and down. “Well not with that sort of attitude, no. But I’ve worked with less, so buck up and wash out that bowl and this time, don’t roll them out so thin.”

  
With a sheepish nod, Elsie sets about doing just that, scrubbing at the drying batter stuck to her arms as well as the bowl. 

  
“He can’t expect you to have much knowledge of the kitchen.” Comes Mrs Patmore’s voice a moment later, lowered from her previous brusque tone.  Elsie doesn’t doubt who the cook means, though they’ve never explicitly spoken of why she wants to learn to cook.

  
“I’m sure he hasn’t given it much thought. But it is the very least expected in a wife." 

  
"Surely he must realise you’ve not needed to make more than a cup of tea and a headache powder in years?” Her friend persists and Elsie is sure the other woman means well, but the topic is doing nothing to alleviate her worries.  

  
“As I’ve said, I’m sure Mr Carson hasn’t thought on it at all. But no doubt he believes it a skill all women have instinctively, even housekeepers.” After all, she herself never thought it would be this hard to make a few basic staples. 

  
“What absolute rot! It’s a learned skill, is what it is and one that needs maintaining.”

  
“Well, I certainly hope so, Mrs Patmore because I think I’ve proven that I’m not a natural.” She jokes, hoping to bring the mood back up and the conversation to a close.

  
“No, you’re certainly not that. But you are trying and Mr Carson best appreciate that or he’ll feel the back of my biggest spoon.”

  
Elsie laughs at the image even though she has no intention at all of letting her fiancée know about these little lessons; Mrs Patmore has already been sworn to absolute secrecy. 

  
“Thank you Mrs Patmore. But I don’t think that’ll be necessary. With you as my teacher, I’m sure I’ll master enough dishes not to let Mr Carson down too terribly.” What kind of wife will she be, if she cannot ensure that her husband is satisfactorily fed?

  
Turned away as she is, Elsie doesn’t see the narrowing of Mrs Patmore’s eyes, or the concerned look that slips across her face as she considers her friend. 

—–

  
To say that Beryl was pleased to hear of her friends’ engagement would be to describe the crown jewels as charming trinkets. 

  
After all the years of watching the two fools circle each other, worrying about each other and tying themselves up in tight balls of anxiety each time the other had so much as a sniffle, Beryl is downright ecstatic that it hasn’t all been for nothing.

  
She hadn’t thought the old grump had it in him to make the first move. In fact, when there’d been no sign, nothing at all after their little hand holding at the beach, she’d almost given up hope. 

  
What absolute luck her aunt’s death had been in the end, to give the old man a much needed shove. 

  
So yes, Beryl is over the moon for her friends and until very recently was quite proud of the old butler for opening himself up enough to show Mrs Hughes his feelings.

  
Following her chat with Mrs Hughes last night however, Beryl isn’t so sure he did that at all.

  
She doesn’t know the circumstances of the proposal; they’ve both been quite tight lipped about it all told, but she had hoped, knowing where both their hearts lay as she does, that there might have been some moment of romance to the event, if only in Mr Carson revealing just why he was proposing at all.

  
But the anxiety that had swum around Mrs Hughes as she ruined another batch of lemon biscuits, the _‘some wife I’ll make’_ mumbled under the housekeeper’s breath as they’d called it a night, well, that rather spoke to the contrary.

  
She sees them now as she brings in the last of the breakfast to the servants hall, the nervous fluttering of Mrs Hughes’ hands as she butters Mr Carson’s toast, the gentle smile Mr Carson gives the top of her head, smoothed out again by the time the woman looks up. 

  
Damn and blast the man. Beryl has no doubt at all that Mr Carson proposed from a place of love, that despite Mrs Hughes’ words the night before, he does know very well the limitations of his future wife and doesn’t care a whit. If he were simply looking for a woman to cook and keep a house for him during his dotage, then he’d just as easily have tipped his cap at Beryl herself as the woman next to him. 

  
No, Beryl knows Mr Carson wants Mrs Hughes, not just ‘a wife’. She is also sure, she thinks with a wicked smirk as she heads back to the kitchens, that he isn’t looking for her to be just a friendly companion either, not with the way his eyes have always settled at her hips whenever the housekeeper walks away from him.

  
But it won’t do if Mrs Hughes runs herself ragged thinking the old goat simply wants a familiar presence, just a maid and cook for a wife. 

No, that won’t do at all.

—–

  
It has, by Charles’s reckoning, been thirty days and a handful of hours now since Mrs Hughes accepted his stumbling proposal and thus made him a happy man. A very happy man indeed. 

He had not thought that one day he would have the promise of such a woman, had long resigned himself to a lonesome retirement when the time eventually came that he could no longer fulfil his duties to a standard befitting his position.

  
There had never been any thought at all of finding himself a companion for his retirement; though he understood the practicalities of such marriages, to his private shame he is an old romantic at heart and has always believed one should marry for love, or not at all.

  
He had contented himself over time with the thought of never marrying, because he believed that after the wounds of his youth he would never find a woman to love, never mind one who might return the sentiment in kind. 

  
And then Mrs Hughes had come along and with her characteristic efficiency, she had set his wounds to mending and opened his eyes to what had been right in front of them for some time.

  
To his surprise, he discovered that he had in fact found such a woman many years ago, when his fiery Scottish Dragon had taken her first steps into the Abbey and installed herself as his dearest friend.

  
That she is beautiful both inside and out certainly doesn’t hurt, he thinks with the same smile that has been coming to his face since that Christmas Eve night, does not hurt at all.

  
They have hardly touched since their engagement – he is not a cad and Mrs Hughes deserves to be treated with the utmost respect – but he cannot deny that each brush of their fingers as they walk the corridors together, the sometimes accidental nudge of his knee to hers beneath the table during mealtimes, has his heart beating hopefully in his chest, the very nerves in his fingertips aching for a time when he might reach for more and be granted it.

  
He is a very happy, very fortunate man.

  
He takes a deep breath and tries once more to focus on the wine ledger before him on the desk. 

  
He has had word from a merchant of a large shipment of his Lordship’s favourite Bordeaux, expected at shore in the next few weeks and he needs to be sure of how many to purchase whilst they’re at a good rate. And perhaps an extra bottle as a treat for himself and his wife, as she will be by then.

  
On the nights that they stray away from their usual sherry, he has noticed that Mrs Hughes rather favours this particular wine herself. 

  
Charles has no strong opinions on it, however he has long appreciated the stain it gives to Mrs Hughes’ lips after her first few sips. 

  
Tapping his pen idly against the desk, he wonders if it might taste at all different from her lips than from his glass.

  
“I’ve no need to ask what’s got you so distracted, Mr Carson.”

  
Charles jumps at the voice from his door and drops his pen as he looks up. “Or perhaps I should say ‘who’, hmm?”

  
Mrs Patmore steps more fully into his pantry, making herself at home in one of his chairs without waiting for him to invite her in.

  
“It’s customary to knock before entering a room, Mrs Patmore.”

  
The cook raises an eyebrow at him. “And it’s customary to answer when someone’s been knocking at your door for five minutes straight. I looked a right wally standing out there, Mr Carson, while you shared a moment with your Scottish fairies.”

  
If he were a different man, Charles might flush at Mrs Patmore’s insinuation, accurate as it is. Instead he coughs and tugs at his shirt collar.

  
“I apologise Mrs Patmore, I’m afraid I must have lost myself in these ledgers.”

  
The cook lifts up from her chair to peer over his desk. “Must be quite the wine, Mr Carson to bring such a look on your face.”

  
She settles back into her seat with a smug smile and Charles tugs at his waistcoat.

  
“Yes, quite.” _Silly fool_ , he should have told her he’d no idea what she meant. Too late now for that, he presses on quickly. “How can I be of assistance, Mrs Patmore?”

  
“Right, well, this is a delicate matter,” she starts and his eyes widen in slight panic, “so don’t you start getting your dander up before I’ve finished.”

  
Leaning forward in his chair he frowns.

  
“Mrs Patmore, I can assure you, whatever you wish to discuss, I have no intention of raising my 'dander’ at all." 

  
The cook nods but doesn’t seem entirely assured. "Good, good. Just you remember that, mind.”

  
He waits while she pauses, expecting that she needs a moment to gather her thoughts, however he is a busy man and his own distractions before her arrival have already set him several minutes back. It won’t do to miss his time with Mrs Hughes this evening because he has too much work still to do.

He waves a hand to his door and the rooms beyond. “Perhaps you’d prefer to speak to Mrs Hughes first, if it’s as delicate a matter as you say?”

He cannot help – though he has been trying – the smile that appears on his lips as he says Mrs Hughes’ name. 

  
He jumps again as Mrs Patmore’s hand slams down hard on his desk.

  
“There! That right there, that’s what I want to discuss and I can’t very well do it with the woman in question, can I, where’s the sense in that?”

  
The cook looks quite lively, engaged in whatever madness has taken hold of her now. Perhaps he should call for Mrs Hughes himself.

  
“What woman, Mrs Patmore?” He asks, trying to work out if he’s missed something in their brief but confusing conversation that might shed some light on what’s riled her up. What had he done that made her jump about?

“Mrs Hughes of course, who else would I be talking about?”

  
Frankly at this stage, he hasn’t a clue. “I haven’t a clue, Mrs Patmore.”

  
The cook peers at him – he believes 'beadily’ would be an apt description – and sighs.  “That’s about the truth of it.”

  
With a sigh of his own, Charles brings a hand to his brow and rubs furiously. “Mrs Patmore, please calm down and explain what it is that you wish to discuss with me, that I take it has something to do with Mrs Hughes?”

  
Mrs Hughes, whom he saw not two hours ago at lunch and who he believes is currently meeting with her Ladyship about new linens for the Blue Room. It seems unlikely that anything can have befallen her in that time and even less likely that he wouldn’t already have been fetched for if it had.

  
“Of course it has to do with Mrs Hughes; I’ve already said as much. And I warned you about that dander, Mr Carson. It’s no wonder the pair of you are so out of sorts, too buttoned up to talk about what’s important. Not a good start to any endeavour, a lot of misunderstandings and–”

  
He’ll admit it; he loses his patience then. 

  
“Mrs Patmore!” He cuts her off. “Will you please just speak plainly.” Or not at all, he thinks.

  
The woman takes what Charles hopes is a steadying breath and smiles. He does not trust that smile, having so many teeth behind it. “Very well, Mr Carson. Plainly put, I wish to know why you have asked Mrs Hughes to marry you. Plainer still,” she continues before he can interrupt, “I want to know what it is you expect from her as your wife.”

—–

Beryl relaxes as the last of her words leave her mouth. There, she’s asked him now. Not quite how she’d planned it, but subtlety hadn’t been working for either of them. 

  
She watches with some concern as his complexion darkens. She hopes she hasn’t pushed the man into a conniption! 

  
She’d had rather another attack of the heart in mind for him.

  
After another moment he opens his mouth, beginning to stand and oh, she’d best nip that in the bud right quick before he thinks to throw her out without an answer.

  
“Mrs Patmore, I–”

  
“Only there’s been some confusion, you see, over whether you’re in want of a wife for just the company.”

  
Standing fully now, Mr Carson frowns at her angrily, but at least some of the wind seems to have seeped from his sails.

  
“I expect better of you Mrs Patmore, as Mrs Hughes’ friend and as a senior member of staff, than to engage in this kind of vulgar gossip mongering. Whatever the agreement between Mrs Hughes and myself, I’ll thank you, no I’ll command you, to leave it between us and us alone.”

  
Beryl frowns. “So there _is_ an agreement between you then?” She presses.

  
“Of course there is; we’re engaged to be married.” The fool sounds confused; she’d hoped he would have figured it out by now. 

  
Right, time to be plain again then. If she were in her kitchen, she’d be rolling up her sleeves about now. 

  
“And would this marriage be of the convenient kind, Mr Carson or of the other.”

  
“The other?” In other circumstances, the bemused look on the butler’s face might be amusing. Now it just exasperates Beryl to the point of blurting out; 

  
“Passion, Mr Carson. Passion.”

  
She’s never seen the man blush so red. She considers pushing him down to his chair, the speed at which his blood must have shifted about him surely a shock to his system, but he makes the move himself before she can.

  
Hands against his desk, she watches as his knuckles whiten. “Mrs Patmore, I think you should leave now, before anything more is said.”

  
“Mr Carson–”

  
“Leave Mrs Patmore and kindly keep your imprudent nose out of my business!”

  
Far from being frightened by the volume and tone of the Butler’s voice, Mrs Patmore feels her own ire rising. 

  
“I’ll keep out of it, Charles Carson, when 'your business’ isn’t fretting about my kitchen almost in tears, because she’s so concerned she’ll make a terrible wife trying to live up to your expectations!”

  
 "My…She’s…What?“

  
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Beryl faces the unsettled man with a gentler eye.

  
"Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson, are you aware that she cannot cook?”

  
The butler’s great eyebrows pull together in confusion, though his tone is certainly more even than before. “I think we’d best start again Mrs Patmore, from the beginning.”

  
—–

It has been a good if long day, by the time Elsie makes her way to her parlour after the last of the maids have gone up. 

  
For the last hour or so it’s been the thought of spending time with Mr Carson alone in his pantry that has seen her through; if she didn’t treasure those moments so much she might have been tempted to retire to bed early tonight. She’d hardly slept a wink the night before, after the disastrous lesson with Mrs Patmore.

  
Stifling a yawn with her hand, Elsie steps in front of her mirror and sets about tucking away the hairs that have strayed from her pins throughout the day. Since their brief flirtation, she hasn’t been able to face a looking glass without thinking of her words to Mr Carson, and his response. 

  
She turns at a quiet knock to her door, smiling as the man in question hovers in the doorway.

  
“You hardly look like you’ve done a day’s work, Mrs Hughes.”

  
“It certainly doesn’t feel that way, Mr Carson.” Ducking her head to hide her blush at having been caught and her heart giving a little lift to hear such a compliment from the man, Elsie waves him to come in, startled to feel her fingers brush against his jacket as she does so. 

Looking up, she finds him already through the door and close enough that nary a foot of space stands between them. 

  
“Mrs Hughes, I must apologise, my words implied that I didn’t know quite well how hard you’ve worked today. Not just today of course,” to her amazement, Mr Carson stumbles over the words toppling from his lips, “I’ve never known you to give anything but the upmost to your work, not that you don’t deserve to take some time to yourself should you need it; desi–ahem, _want_ it. I don’t mean to imply that you would need time to rest, or that–”

  
Amusement settling over her, Elsie allows the back of her hand to press more firmly against Mr Carson’s chest. “Mr Carson, I took your words in the manner I believed they were intended. Goodness knows I’ve complained about my work enough over our glasses of sherry to be assured that you know I keep myself busy.” Besides which, since Christmas he has seemed even less inclined to find himself on her 'bad side’ than ever before.

  
“Oh.” He deflates, bringing a hand up to cover her own. “Good.”

  
They haven’t done this; touched like this. There has been the odd brush against each other in the corridors, small touches of their legs beneath the table. But since she accepted his proposal, no, they haven’t been like this.

  
She had never believed that he would ask her to marry him, not after all the years where he gave no indication but for the odd rarest of occasions, that he held her to any degree of affection, and never then any higher than that of a close friend. But she had allowed herself the odd flight of fancy that he _might_ and then what that might be like. She feels her cheeks heat even thinking it; but she had thought there might be more intimacy involved. Perhaps a brief kiss, to her cheek or forehead if anything more might seem too improper to him, even between an engaged couple.

  
However she is a patient woman when need be and she has no doubt that with his ring on her finger and behind their own private closed doors, she will have no cause to doubt Mr Carson’s affections, nor he hers. She would not have agreed to marry him if she did not truly believe that he loves her. It might have taken him a while to catch up with her, but she has been certain since his laboured words to her on Christmas Eve that he finally has. 

  
Now if only she could manage a good pie crust and she’d have nothing at all to fear in the prospect of their eventual retirement.

  
The brush of his thumb across her palm pulls her from her wandering thoughts.

She blinks up at the smile on his face as he looks at her. No she has no doubts about this man.

  
“Did you have something you needed, Mr Carson; only I was just heading for your pantry?”

  
His smile dims as his eyes flick nervously to her chairs. Bringing their hands down from his chest, he nods towards her small table. “I’d like to speak to you a moment Mrs Hughes, if you’ll allow.”

  
Her heart flutters again as she allows him to lead her to a chair, as she remembers another occasion that he asked for a moment of her time quite as formally.

“Of course, Mr Carson.” She notices as she watches him sit, that he must have closed her parlour door when he entered.

  
“Mrs Hughes, it has been brought to my… that is to say I have been made to realise…” She raises an eyebrow as he breaks off again. Before today she would have said that she had never heard the Butler so uncertain with his words, and yet twice tonight he has struggled.

  
“Are you quite well, Mr Carson?” She reaches out without thought to press her hand to his brow, the action halted as he gathers it close in both of his own and holds it above the table.

  
“I’m fine, Mrs Hughes. Only you see,” he takes a breath, “I cannot paint, Mrs Hughes.” He says, like it is a terrible weight off his shoulders.

  
If he did not have hold of her hand she likely would have sat back at the absurdity of the words.

  
“You cannot…”

  
“Paint.” He repeats. “I cannot paint, I have no idea where one starts when considering fitting a shelf to a wall, except that there must be some measuring involved I would imagine and when I was a boy, the Dowager had me promise never to set foot in her gardens because she was afraid of my black thumb ruining her prize roses.”

  
By the time he reaches the last of his confessions, Elsie has her free hand up against her mouth to hide her smile, although if Mr Carson were to look up from his study of the carpet he’d likely see the laughter in her eyes.

  
When she has calmed and no more is forthcoming from the man opposite her, she tugs at their joined hands to pull his attention back to her.

  
“While I do enjoy learning new things about you, Mr Carson, what on earth brought on such a moment of confession?”

  
He holds her gaze as he answers, his voice quiet enough that she finds herself drawn forward in her chair to hear him better.

  
“I know that you are taking lessons from Mrs Patmore and that you worry that I expect, or that I might _not_ expect…” He trails off and she feels her cheeks heating again. So he knows her secret and she’ll bet she knows just the little birdy that told it too. 

  
Although both of them seem to have got the wrong end of the stick.

  
“Mr Carson, let me stop you there.” Before he does himself an injury! She can guess at what he is trying to say and Good Lord, she might have hoped for a little conversation or implication in this vein, but she hadn’t wanted him to burst a vessel attempting it. 

  
“It’s true that I’m taking lessons from Mrs Patmore, Mr Carson. I haven’t cooked a meal since I was a lass in Argyll and unless we intend to eat only cold meats and salad on our retirement, I thought it might benefit us both if I take instruction whilst it is freely and conveniently offered.”  

  
Feeling bold, she rests the fingertips of her free hand against his cheek, allows them to slip into his hair as he turns ever so slightly into her palm and she feels the tension in him begin to relax.

  
Her daft man.

  
“As to what I may or may not believe you expect; Mr Carson I agreed to marry the man who told me he could not think of marrying anyone else. Who offered me as much time as I needed to consider and then could not wait five minutes for my answer.”

  
He smiles sheepishly at her and she longs to kiss him, longs for the time when she won’t hesitate to. 

  
“Rest assured, Mr Carson. I have no doubts of the sort of marriage we shall have.”  The heat in her cheeks likely gives away the direction of her thoughts as she says this and she doesn’t miss the way that his eyes drop down to her lips for a brief moment, before he swallows and brings them back up.

  
“And you’ll be happy, Mrs Hughes?” His voice is a low rumble, almost a growl and he brings her hand to his mouth, lips tickling lightly against her skin.

  
“If I don’t kill us both with a poisoned stew? Yes Mr Carson, I’ll be very happy indeed.”

  
And she’ll be needing a word with a certain well meaning cook in the morning; Mrs Patmore might have interfered and been completely mistaken in her concern, but as Mr Carson turns her hand to press a kiss to her wrist, Elsie can’t really be angry at the old meddler.

 

**End.**


End file.
